


L'Attachement

by cielelyse, emso



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Corporate, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Exhibitionism, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Porn with Feelings, but mild exhibitionism, hello it's em and ely back at it again, is it Atsumu who is attached or is it us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28767402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cielelyse/pseuds/cielelyse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/emso/pseuds/emso
Summary: Sakusa is the president of a company. Atsumu is a bodyguard. Naturally, it's sexual tension at first sight.(Whoa hey President Sakusa, I think Bodyguard Tsumu might possibly have a teensy crush on you.)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 71
Kudos: 510
Collections: SakuAtsu Fics





	L'Attachement

“There's somethin' I should tell you,” says Atsumu. 

Sakusa lifts his eyes up at him, cagey, expectant, a flash of caution behind them like treading torrents. Atsumu swallows back the trepidation in his throat. 

_I like you,_ he thinks, wants to say. _I like you. I've liked you ever since—_

  
  
+

“This is Miya Atsumu.”

The secretary's hand hovers in the space between them; her fingernails the colour of wine, of apple, of petals rusting in the mien of near autumn. She vaguely gestures to him. Tilts her neck, says, “Your new bodyguard,” and Atsumu only needs to take one look at the man in front of him to think, _oh, shit._

Sakusa Kiyoomi stands before him, expression cool, gaze set. Mouth hidden away behind his mask. For a man whose infamy as the most widely hated President of the Itachiyama enterprise is matched only by his success as its youngest, Atsumu can't seem to immediately find the hostility expected to be present in his eyes. Something stirs within them instead—more like, well, _honesty,_ he supposes, if he really has to put a name to it.

“Nice to meet you,” says Atsumu, reaching out a hand. Sakusa doesn't take it. 

  
  
+

Atsumu's collar wrinkles; gets balled up in Sakusa's fist. Next thing he knows, he's being slammed up against the wall. The force of it almost knocks the heart out of his chest. 

“Stay out of my way,” says Sakusa. A stony truculence seeps through the words, but the way he delivers it—how it slips out of his mouth, rolls off of his tongue, carves through the air—is coiling something warm inside Atsumu. Something uncontrollable. Atsumu can almost taste Sakusa's cologne in the static between them. 

“What the hell is wrong with ya,” he says.

“You can't keep your feelings out of professional matters,” says Sakusa, releasing the grip on Atsumu's shirt. Atsumu finds ground, reaches up a hand to toy with the ghost of a hold. “I see the way you get distracted, Miya. It’s not in your job description to get invested in business decisions that don’t concern you. Concentrate on the tasks you have to do and do them right. Any missteps, and I'll have you fired.” 

Whiplash gives way to trickling irritation as Sakusa turns away, and Atsumu hears himself release a slightly breathless fragment of a laugh, incredulous, caustic. Sakusa pauses at the sound. Glances back indifferently over his shoulder; the barest glint of steel. 

“Oh my god,” Atsumu says, “you're a fuckin' jerk.”

+

“Yeah,” says Osamu. “He's a fuckin’ jerk.” 

“No wonder people hate ‘im,” says Atsumu. “He just says whatever he thinks is necessary, regardless of how people feel. What kinda person _does_ that? Everyone’s gonna be screwed when he takes over as CEO, seriously.”

“Well,” says Osamu. “I heard he has a weakness.”

Atsumu turns toward him. A vaguely lazy look is plastered on Osamu’s face: he can't care less, all of this but a story to him. 

“That chairman,” he says, “the good-lookin’ one. Over at Shiratorizawa.”

+

“Of fuckin' course,” Atsumu mumbles to himself. “What did I expect.” 

Ushijima Wakatoshi is one of the youngest chairmen across the history of Shiratorizawa’s board. Grounded, cool, civil, and probably motherfucking strong too, by the look of it—he effortlessly earns the respect of all his juniors, his staff members down the chain. _In complete contrast to this too-blunt jerk,_ Atsumu thinks, staring at the way they talk, the way Sakusa fiddles with his fingers, the way a gleam traces the very edges of his impassive eyes.

Something in the core of Atsumu's stomach rips apart then. Something warm.

+

It isn't like Atsumu has any proclivities towards setting himself aflame.

There are faults in every decision, really, gaps in every thought. Atsumu is twenty-five years old and is a jangling mass of dissonance held together by impulse. Desire. Need. What his heart wants, his body shifts along with it. It’s not like he asks to hurtle himself towards calamity. _But what is the point of living,_ he thinks, _if all you do is toe the line?_

The trick to living is to paint with broad strokes. That's what he thought. But sometimes, when the season’s breeze rustles through the trees around them, Sakusa turns to him, and Atsumu cracks apart like something hatching, something breaking, because Sakusa—clockwork Sakusa—does things by trade, all the importance in his life the little things.

The pass of long pale fingers over the corners of an annual report. The breath of office air-conditioning. The downward sweep of sable lashes. Furrow of a brow. Pausing on the street just to brush those fingers this time against the head of a stray cat, whiskers nudging his palm, the wind's whisper tousling up the shroud of his hair. Barest semblance of a smile. Little things.

Maybe the trick to living is to not run, then. Anything worth chasing after, you can always take with heed. 

+

He sees the rock coming almost in slow-motion.

They’re side by side in the back of a company Mercedes, the driver slowing to let them out as they approach the glittering entrance of Itachiyama’s headquarter offices, Atsumu already having clicked free his seatbelt and turning to push his side door open first. It’s why he just so _happens_ to be facing his window when the rock gets thrown—why he _happens_ to be free of the restraints of his belt so he can twist around reflexively and hurl himself on top of Sakusa—more luck than skill really: serendipitous timing, fortunate seat placement.

But then that’s all semantics. In the end what matters is that he’s there in time.

_Concentrate on the tasks you have to do—_

The window shatters into pieces.

— _and do them right._

The driver slams on the brakes. They yank violently to a stop. Glass fragments hit his back, his shoulders, the leather of the seats beneath them; Atsumu braces himself with his arms on either side of Sakusa’s head and waits with his heart in his throat for the shower of splinters to settle. _Are you both alright?!_ he hears the driver yell back at them, throwing open his door, leaping out to hurry around and check for damage. _’M fine_ , he hears himself pant back, even as his palms slip sweaty and trembling against leather, _and he’s…_

+

Trying to keep from coming too soon. Atsumu groans, the tight heat inside Sakusa almost sending him over the edge, the cloud of sweat and sex between them blurring his vision. He moves slowly in, one push up to the hilt, and has to pause to catch his breath.

Sakusa is trembling under him, on his hands and on his knees. Atsumu watches as a trickle of sweat slips down the line of Sakusa’s neck, disappearing behind his collar. _Fuck._ Fuck, the sight of his back _burns_.

“Get on with it,” Sakusa pants, turning to face him, eyes hazy, “or I’ll find someone else who will.”

“Hah,” says Atsumu, “well,” and slams into him, hard and fast.

Sakusa lets out a helpless little gasp. The documents scattered on the desk crease around his fist, pulling the paper and Atsumu’s mind along with it. And God, dammit, it’s been all but twenty minutes and Atsumu can still hear the glass shattering, the shards like knives on his skin, the violent lodge of fear, the feel of Sakusa’s body beneath him, the sound of—

“Let me hear you, President,” Atsumu pants, almost pleads. “Say my—let me hear you.”

+

“Wakatoshi-kun,” says Sakusa. “I’ll see you next week then, for our follow-up.”

Ushijima nods, attention still fixed mostly on the report in his hands. Sakusa blinks at him once, then turns away, the seams of his coat catching the sharp white-gold of the fluorescent lights. Atsumu watches him go. 

“What is it with him,” he says aloud. Two months, it has been. Two months since they started this nightmare of a game, this intoxicating routine. The old song and dance.

“Pardon?” says Ushijima, glancing up at last, following the trail of Atsumu’s gaze towards the door. “Oh, you mean. Ah. My apologies. Well, yes, he does present something of a contradiction. Kiyoomi-kun has always seemed like a very reserved, callous guy, but—beneath all that—he has quite an affinity for impulse.”

“Uh,” says Atsumu. “Are you trying to say he’s an adrenaline junkie?”

Ushijima looks back at him then; sincere, humourless. “Well,” he says, “haven’t you seen? He has a sort of glint in his eye, sometimes.”

“Hm,” says Atsumu.

+

_M’fine. And he’s—_

Atsumu blinks to focus his eyes and straightens his elbows, lifting himself gingerly off Sakusa and then, almost as an afterthought, glancing down to examine him for injuries. It’s only then that he notices that Sakusa’s breath is coming a little sharp and shallow. He looks the most disheveled that Atsumu’s ever seen him—stray curls tossed gracelessly against his forehead, his suit jacket rumpled where they’d been pressed against one another not a moment ago—and he’s glowering at Atsumu as though this is somehow his fault, like he didn’t just arguably have his life saved, the ungrateful, stupid, dense bastard who doesn’t even have a _scratch_ anywhere on that pretty face.

“…He’s also fine,” Atsumu grits out.

Sakusa’s eyes flick up at once to meet his. They’re very dark, his irises. Atsumu had noticed them from the very beginning, the way they seem to suck in all the light around them, inscrutable most of the time, deliberately opaque.

But they’re not opaque now. Atsumu can see it right there transparent as day. The very same thing coursing intoxicatingly through his own veins right now: pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

He only realizes how hard he’s biting down on his own bottom lip when he tastes blood. Sakusa doesn’t so much as blink at the sight of it, holding his gaze with that same steady intensity that he bestows on his briefing documents—the minutes from his board meetings—the blustering of his competitors. Like he’s picking you all the way apart. Like he can see right through. 

God. _Fuck_. He nearly— _they_ nearly. Atsumu’s head is still spinning with the ebbing traces of his fight-or-flight; yet all that he finds himself thinking right now, as he stares down at the mantled lightning in Sakusa's gaze, is a hundred variations of _I’d kiss ya if you weren’t my boss, I’d kiss ya if you weren’t such an asshole, I’d kiss ya if the driver wasn’t here right now._

What was it, again, that other thing he’d said that day?

 _Any missteps_ —

“My office,” Sakusa says, abrupt, the words hot and damp against Atsumu’s blood-beaded lips. “Now.”

+

“But we can discuss the matter more in my office, if you’re amenable.”

Sakusa’s voice. Atsumu starts; his reflection, suspended hazily between the tops of the high-rises gleaming beyond the window, does the same. 

He turns away from it just in time to see the hardwood door swing open as Sakusa walks in with whichever suit-and-tie he’s talking into a contract today. It’s not like it’s _Atsumu’s_ job to put names to faces, anyway. He can barely tell them apart from one another—well, with the glaring exception, of course, being that stupidly handsome chairma—

He blinks. “Kita-san?”

They both stop speaking to look at him, Sakusa visibly irked at the interruption. For once, though, Atsumu barely registers the turn of his expression.

“Atsumu,” says Kita. That same summer-sky smile, soft as ever. Warmth rolls into the brackets of Atsumu’s chest at the sight of it: a kind of comfort in knowing that the unexpected inheritance of his father’s position hasn’t sharpened Kita’s edges, roughened his eyes, his voice. “I didn’t think I’d be runnin’ into _you_ here.”

Sakusa glances between them, lowering the binder in his hands. “You… know each other.”

“He worked for me when my father was still CEO and I was President, like yourself.” Kita’s the first of them to move; stepping away from Sakusa, he approaches the window and lifts a hand to lightly touch the top of Atsumu’s head, the gesture fond. His eyes crinkle. “You fixed your hair? Took ya long enough.”

Sakusa’s staring. There’s something about being at the vertex of their attention—one of easy familiarity, the other intense and probing, somehow vigilant, frosty—Atsumu feels the fluttering heat of a flush rise to his cheeks against his will.

He clears his throat. “I did.”

“Still busy causin’ trouble?” The hand drops from his hair at last; Atsumu doesn’t miss the way Sakusa’s gaze tracks the movement, but almost wishes he had. Wishes there weren’t constantly these details upon details upon details for him to read into. Hates being turned into an overthinker. It doesn’t suit him.

Kita smiles again and glances over his shoulder at Sakusa. “I’m kiddin’, of course. I only mean that Atsumu’s always been one of those types—absolutely no concept of holdin’ back. Though then again I suppose that’s what makes him such a wonderful bodyguard, wouldn’t you say?”

Dark eyes finally catch onto his, razor-edged, indecipherable. Atsumu holds his breath.

“Yes,” says Sakusa politely. “Quite.”

+

“You’ve been quiet lately, President,” says Atsumu. 

Sakusa lifts his gaze up from beneath his lashes, mouth drawn tight. “Have I,” he mutters. “You sure you're not reading into things?”

“You know I don't even read anymore.”

Sakusa gives him a look.

“Right,” says Atsumu, clearing his throat. “Not funny. My bad.”

In the ensuing silence, they stare at each other. At the frail gaskets of this tangible, brittle thing between them, and Atsumu thinks he may present Sakusa with the truth sooner or later, wrapped up carefully in month-thick layers of fabrication. Perhaps one day, whatever they have will be sturdy enough.

Sakusa stands suddenly.

Pushes the chair so forcefully behind him that it almost topples over, but he doesn’t seem to care. It takes four long strides for him to close the distance between them—close it until they're mere inches apart, the darkness in his eyes a tempest, his silence too loud. 

“President—?”

His words are cut off when Sakusa leans in. His breath so close to Atsumu’s ear, his hand lingering somewhere above his hips, phantomlike. Atsumu tries to still the tremors running through him. _Dammit._

Instead of moving away, Sakusa twines his fingers around Atsumu's wrist and tightens. _Don't do it_ , Atsumu thinks, struggling to look anywhere but at Sakusa—Sakusa, whose hold feels like he's trying to splinter Atsumu apart into shards, whose gaze makes it seem like this grip is the closest thing to an attachment he thinks they have. _Don't do it. Don't get so close to me._

“Miya,” Sakusa says, a whisper. 

_Don't—_

“What is it you want, Miya?”

— _get so close to me._

Atsumu breathes; his head spins. _How cruel,_ he thinks, the ache in his chest like the blunt drag of a dagger. As if this is some game of tightrope walking. _What is it you want, Miya, what is it you need._ As if the question isn't a matter of figuring out the terrains, of hauling yourself away from coasts that aren't yours to chart. He’s one wrong truth away from losing everything, isn't he—all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. There are a lot of things for which candor comes later. 

“I want to do my job right, President,” he says, offering Sakusa the closest thing to veracity he can afford, silver fucking platter. “I can keep my feelings out of professional matters.”

Something on Sakusa’s face pulls shut then; the curtains of his expression drawn.

“I suppose you have,” he says, and lets go. 

++

“He’s gone, apparently,” says Sakusa. “Left straight after the meeting with my father.”

Through the floor-to-ceiling window, Atsumu sees an apparition of themselves, Sakusa's gaze narrowing down, fingers on the glass echoing back.

“What,” says Atsumu, unable to hold back, “were you hopin’ he’d swing by for a heart-to-heart?”

Sakusa turns back. Sends him a withering glare, but doesn’t answer.

 _You’re looking at me,_ thinks Atsumu, his feet unconsciously moving forward, one step at a time, his heart crunching underfoot. _You’re looking at me, but you’re thinking of him, aren’t you. Stop it. Stop it._ “Stop it,” he says, halting an inch before Sakusa. All the acrid hurt—the embittered anger—is unlooping around him now, fiber by fiber, until there’s enough of it to swathe around his neck and be done with this.

Sakusa stares at him. “Stop what.”

Atsumu pulls in. Pushes them against each other, mouths colliding, desperate, greedy. Starved of a man, because anything he says now would just leave him with scars at the worst, wounds at best. 

So he shoves it all away—hand on Sakusa’s shoulder—and when Sakusa’s back hits the window Atsumu has to will himself to hold back, because _god_ , isn’t this fragile.

“What are you—”

Sakusa’s words are cut off clean then; bitten back into a little gasp, when Atsumu palms the tenting front of his pants.

He’s fully hard. Sakusa’s breathing quickens, fingers wrapped around Atsumu’s wrist, inviting, guiding him closer. Fuck. _Fuck,_ Atsumu thinks dizzily, clouded with arousal, his vision zeroing only in on the lidded want in Sakusa’s eyes, dammit—eyes so dark they haunt him sometimes in his wakefulness. This bastard.

“Sometimes,” says Atsumu, “I don’t understand you.”

Sakusa’s eyes narrow then. Almost softly.

“Most of the time,” Atsumu murmurs. “Most of the time, I don’t understand you.”

Sakusa’s gaze drops to the floor, split fraction of a second, before he lifts it back up and burns right through.

“Miya,” he says, near inaudible. “Miya.” Stance firm, one of his hands coils itself around Atsumu’s tie. When Sakusa jerks his arm back towards his chest, Atsumu almost stumbles as he’s reeled in, prey for want. 

Sakusa’s voice is warm, lewd in his ear. “Hurry up and fuck me.”

Apparently want is just the same as need no matter who you are, when it comes to someone unattainable. When it comes to a slice of your heart in someone’s mouth.

Atsumu’s mind blanks for a moment as he places a hand on Sakusa’s shoulder and presses down, nothing gentle. Sakusa makes a surprised little sound when his knees hit the floor. Barely has time to look up for clarity before Atsumu unbuckles his belt in one swift movement, unzips his pants, grabs a lock of Sakusa’s hair and _pulls_.

“Suck it,” he says.

Sakusa, unable to contain his whimper, shakily opens his mouth. 

_That’s right,_ Atsumu thinks, a fleeting flame-curl of a thought. You might be the one putting down documents in front of your wonderful clever illustrious Ushijima Wakatoshi, telling him to sign here, and here, and here, but _I’m_ the one who has you on your knees in your own pristine office, where anyone with a good enough eye in the next building over could see exactly what we’re doing, could see your lips parting at the barest order, the famously intimidating, famously blunt Sakusa Kiyoomi with not a single fucking word to say, and all because you’ve got your mouth too full of your own bodyguard’s cock.

Atsumu's almost bowled over by the delirious thought. Releasing a slightly wobbly breath, he watches Sakusa inch lower onto his cock, lips and jaw slick with spit as he makes a tiny sound of exertion with the effort of taking Atsumu in deeper, deeper, deeper. _Fuck_. His tongue is almost unbelievably hot. It feels—

The clink of a buckle. Sakusa’s undoing his own belt with unsteady fingers, eyes half-lidded, the rise and fall of his chest rapid. His mouth doesn't leave Atsumu's cock for even an instant as he slides his belt out of its loops and tosses it aside—blindly reaches for his waistband, shoves it down past his thighs—the entire process unceremonious. Hungry. And yet he doesn’t move to touch himself, even though his cock, now in full view, is clearly heavy and hard in his lap.

He’s lucky Atsumu knows precisely what it is he’s waiting for.

“Go on, then, _President_ ,” he drawls. “Finger yourself for me.”

Sakusa sucks in a ragged breath and reaches behind himself. Atsumu can’t see it, but he knows exactly when Sakusa’s pushed the first finger inside his own ass, the whine in his throat vibrating delicately up Atsumu’s cock.

He’s not shy about it, either. Knowing fully well that he has himself bared to any number of wandering eyes, he fucks down hard and fast on his fingers, the small noises he makes around Atsumu utterly depraved. It almost sends Atsumu over the edge, _oh god,_ even though he can see little more than the movements of Sakusa’s wrist as he works himself open so fucking obediently, so willing and compliant.

“Can’t let you have all the fun,” says Atsumu, voice rough, “can I.”

Sakusa wordlessly sends Atsumu an anger-drenched glare and hollows out his cheeks. Moves his tongue along the underside of Atsumu’s cock, and _shit_ —Atsumu almost comes from just that, one hand braced against the glass to keep himself from breaking.

“Fuck,” he groans.

Sakusa's lips curl into a smirk. He pulls off of Atsumu, draws his fingers away from his ass and then falls back, rising to a shaky stand. “Can’t have you finish already,” he taunts, “now can I.”

Atsumu huffs out a clipped laugh. “I’m not even close to being done with you,” and then he’s pressing their bodies together again. Puts both hands around Sakusa’s thighs—the pit of his stomach burning at the off-guard sound Sakusa makes—and lifts him up, the window glass a support against Sakusa’s back.

Atsumu crashes their lips together. Licks into him, sucking on Sakusa’s lower lip, and pulls down Sakusa’s pants further with short, rough tugs. And the sound Sakusa makes when he crosses his ankles behind Atsumu’s lower back, Atsumu’s cock nudging against his ass—it’s a low, breathless moan that _wrecks_ Atsumu afresh, because it sounds like a surrender of control, one reserved purely for these stolen flings, for their secret little arrangement with all its wildly blurry cracks and corners.

 _What am I doing,_ Atsumu thinks, moaning into the kiss. _What am I doing,_ as he pushes in.

Sakusa’s eyes flutter closed, taking him in, seeming to melt into the touch. Their skin is slick with sweat and Atsumu can feel the tremor of effort in his own arms—bearing around either side of Sakusa—the effort to go slow until he just _can’t_ anymore. Until Sakusa lets out an obscenely helpless moan and Atsumu’s thrusting into him then, uneven, hard, no regard for the tangled thoughts or the need for gentleness or the fact that they’re a scandal waiting to happen, pressed up against the glass like this.

“Anybody could see you, President,” Atsumu bites out. “Undone. Completely fucking ruined. You look like a mess, y’know.”

Sakusa glares and tightens around him, almost sending the end of the tease teetering into a groan—but Atsumu gathers himself and slams into him instead, angling just right to hit that spot. _Let me hear you._

The sound he gets in response almost blurs his vision. Sakusa’s thighs tremble as he arches up against the glass, and Atsumu doesn’t give him time, doesn’t even give him breath as he fucks back into him, relentless and rough, steeped in the intoxicating way their moans spill indistinctly over one another, savouring in the flushes of their bodies, trying to ignore the tears forming at the corners of Sakusa’s eyes as he curls his hands over Atsumu’s shoulders and clings on. _Let me hear you._

“Atsumu,” Sakusa sobs, “Atsumu.”

God— _yes_. Atsumu uses his weight to cage Sakusa into the windowpane. Reaches down his hand, wraps it around Sakusa’s cock, strokes just once—and that’s all it takes for to tip Sakusa right over the edge. He shudders and comes, eyes falling shut, tightening and quivering like a string pulled taut to breaking point, so far gone that Atsumu wonders if he even registers the volume of his voice echoing through the empty room.

When Sakusa opens his eyes again, they’re still bleary, feverish. He somehow manages to fix them on Atsumu’s anyway, his gaze heated through an ebbing cloud of arousal as he clenches, hard, around Atsumu’s cock.

“You too,” he whispers, uneven, “you too—I want you to—Atsumu, _come_ —”

Desire sparking across every inch of skin, Atsumu keens as he tips his head forward into the crook of Sakusa’s shoulder, defenceless against the overwhelming onslaught of the orgasm that sweeps through him. He gasps for air, lifts his head, grabs for purchase on the window as his toes curl. A hot fog unfurls beneath his touch and blossoms across the glass.

It doesn't take long for Atsumu to catch his breath. When the racing stills, he pulls out and helps Sakusa lower his legs to stand. Steps away a little. Fumbles to do up his own pants and listens for the susurration of another zipper. Only then does he dare to let himself meet Sakusa’s gaze.

And—ah—there they go throwing him off-balance again, those cool dark eyes, softened to something almost gentle in this afterglow, cheeks flushed and glistening with sweat still. His whole face translucent, somehow. Curtains flung open. Just for a moment.

Atsumu braces himself for them to draw closed. But then Sakusa, without warning, winds one hand past his shoulder—pulling him close again—and lifts the other to his face, steady, unhesitating. Then runs his fingers slowly through Atsumu’s still-damp hair.

All the oxygen in his lungs gets punched straight out of them.

“What did it look like?” Sakusa says. He keeps his voice carefully low. “Before.”

“…What?”

An exhale into the inch of space between them, short and sharp. “Your _hair_. Kita-san, he said you…”

And if Atsumu’s stomach does something funny at that—flips on its head, clutches—then nobody can say anything to him about it. Because if Sakusa goes and _says_ things like this, of course he can’t help but seize at strings. Of course he can’t help demanding for a little more. Of course he can’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’s actually allowed to.

Sakusa’s fingers still in his hair as though he can hear the train of thought. _Well, then,_ Atsumu wants to ask him, _if you heard it, if you read me, what are you gonna do about it?_

Half a heartbeat. Time enough for him to back away, if he wants to.

Sakusa doesn’t move.

All the aching dewdrops of Atsumu’s longing pool together then, gathering in his chest, squeezing past the crevices between his ribs, inexorable. The hand in his hair burns supernova-bright. And still Sakusa won’t fucking _look away_.

The room tilts. _Atsumu’s always been one of those types…_

“Sakusa,” he breathes, and then again, because the stoppers been yanked entirely loose now and he’s only half-responsible for it, really. “Sakusa.”

_Absolutely no concept of holdin’ back._

Ha. If only they knew. If only _you_ knew. All the barricades I raised, towering over the edge of my feet only to guard against every catastrophic inch of what this could be. I was just waiting for an ending, Kiyoomi. Just waiting to land on an answer, or in our own remnants, or something unrecognizable.

“Kiyoomi,” says Atsumu, just to try it on his tongue, because there’s no helping himself. 

Sakusa lifts his eyes up at him. A flash of caution. Like treading torrents.

“There’s somethin’ I should tell you,” says Atsumu. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading! We hope you enjoyed! :) 
> 
> Please send [Ely](https://twitter.com/cielelyse2) and [Em](https://twitter.com/emsby4) help, as we are shackled by the bodyguard trope and must be forcibly removed from this piece of shit brainrot


End file.
